


Word of the Day

by apple_pi



Category: The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 11:28:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 6,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7435847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apple_pi/pseuds/apple_pi





	1. Vim

**vim** \VIM\, noun: Power; force; energy; spirit; activity; vigor.

*

“They said I was too fidgety, can you believe that?”

“Why no, Dom, I’ve always thought of you as very serene. Many have been the times that I’ve compared you to the Buddha as you know, you’re that peaceful and still—”

“Bite me.” A pause. “They didn’t tell me they wanted someone who was calm, why would that character be calm?”

“I don’t know, Dom, what was the character?”

“It doesn’t matter. I didn’t get it.”

“Ach, ’m sorry.”

“Oh, well. Must be idiots, not to want me.”

“Or to not tell you they wanted you to try it another way, really. It’s true that naturally you’re as calm as a flea on crack cocaine—”

“You know just what to say to cheer me up.”

“—but you _can_ be still, when you’re acting. I mean, did they not see Rings?”

“I dunno.” A sigh. “Thanks.”

“Yes, well. Must restore you to your natural cocaine-induced state of energy, Dommie.”

“Why is that?”

“I’ll be there in three days, and if you’re moping about it’s less fun for me.”

“You’re all heart, Boyd, really—so thoughtful, always putting your mates first. It’s rather—”

“When you’re down I have to bring you beers, y’see—”

“—rather Buddha-like, actually. Now I think of it. Like your belly.”

“That’s me.”

“Getting fatter every day, yeah.”

...

“I’m glad you’ll be here soon.”

“Aye, well. Me, too.”

“Perhaps you should tell me more about how talented I am. If you want me energetic enough to fetch your beers and all.”

“I see, I see. Well, you do have the most amazing ability to clear a room with a fart.”

“That’s you.”

“Oh, is it? That’s right. What can you do, then?”

“Surf better than any other hobbit.”

“Oh, no, no, Dommie my lad. That’s me, too.”

“Hmm. I’m not feeling very energised.”

“Oh, I know. I’ve got it.”

“What?”

“You always make me look good by comparison.”

“No, no. That’s you, too, Bill.”

“Well there you are then.”

“I do feel better.”

“So stock the fridge, and I’ll be there soon.”

“It’s done. See you Thursday.”

“You’ve got the flight information?”

“I do.”

“Alright. I’ll talk to you then.”

“Love you.”

“You, too. And Dom, they are idiots. Not to give you that role, no matter what it was.”

“Thanks, Bodhissatva.” 

“Yes, yes. Shut it. Go wax my board so I can reclaim my title.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”


	2. Exegete

**exegete** \EK-suh-jeet\, noun: A person who explains or interprets difficult parts of written works.

*

“Of course I’m right.”

Billy took a drink and settled deeper into the sofa cushions. “You’re full of shite, as usual.”

Dom scooted closer. “Listen, Tolkien was all about the love. He totally meant for Merry and Pippin to be together.”

“As best friends. Not like—” Billy waved one hand around, looking away— “that.”

“Absolutely like that!” Dom bounced on the sofa; it brought him a couple of inches closer to Billy. Billy rolled his eyes at the empty room as Dom rambled on: “They bathed together! They ran around naked! They moved in together!”

“They got married—not to each other—and had babies and lived fifty miles apart.” Billy leaned forward to put his glass on the coffee table; straightened and looked at Dom again. “They loved each other, but I don’t think they were shagging.”

Dom’s face fell. He was close enough now that Billy could see the minute freckles across his cheeks and nose. “I think they were,” he insisted, more quietly.

“Dominic.” Billy smiled, slowly. He put one hand on Dom’s thigh. “Just because they weren’t shagging doesn’t mean we can’t.”

Dom looked up. “Really?”

“Yeah. C’mere and kiss me, if you want to.” Billy ignored the flutter of nerves in his belly, and the sudden dampness of his palms. He kept smiling, and closed his eyes, and let Dom kiss him.

“Thanks, Bill,” Dom whispered a few moments later. He put his head on Billy’s shoulder and sighed.

Billy opened his eyes and ran one hand down Dom’s narrow back. “You’re welcome. I wondered when you’d get around to it.”

“Bite me.”

“In a little while,” Billy promised. He felt Dom’s grin against his neck, and then he felt Dom’s tongue, and Billy made a small noise: contentment, desire. “You just needed me to interpret Tolkien properly for you.”

“I still think you’re wrong.” Dom’s fingers tugged at the hem of Billy’s t-shirt, then slid beneath it. Billy shivered as Dom ran his hand over his side.

“Well, you’ve plenty of time to convince me otherwise,” Billy said. He touched Dom’s chin, lifting his face. He smiled and closed his eyes and kissed Dom again.


	3. Quiddity

**quiddity** \KWID-ih-tee\, noun:  
1\. The essence, nature, or distinctive peculiarity of a thing. 2. A hairsplitting distinction; a trifling point; a quibble. 3. An eccentricity; an odd feature.

*

“No, not like that!” Dom snatched the ornament from Billy and glared.

Billy raised an eyebrow at him. 

“You have to do it _properly_ ,” Dom said. He stared at Billy, attempting to impress him with the gravity of his sin. “You can’t just wrap it up any old way and toss it into the box.” Dom pinched a single piece of tissue between his index finger and thumb, peeling it delicately away from the stack and laying it across the sofa cushion. “It hurts the ornament’s feelings.”

Billy rolled his eyes and took down a red blown-glass globe. “I bought that thing for sixty pence,” he said. “At a jumble sale.” He popped the globe into its box and reached for one of its five siblings.

“So it needs your love even more,” Dom said. He finished wrapping the little glass snowman and laid it carefully in the box of loose ornaments. “Sleep well till next year,” he said, and turned back to the tree. “Now what next?” he murmured, tapping his chin. “Oh, you’re a pretty one,” he crooned, lifting a silver bell from one branch.

Billy sighed. “It’s going to take us nine hours to pack everything away if you go that slowly.” He folded the top over the box he’d just finished packing and tossed it gently onto the sofa.

“Maybe I want it to take nine hours,” Dom mumbled. “It’s not even Epiphany yet, is it, little bell?” He tucked tissue around the clapper and then began wrapping the body of the bell.

Billy bit his lip. “You do this every year, you know.”

“I like Christmas,” Dom said. “Just because I love the lights, and the decorations, and the food, and the pressies, just because I’m not a bloody Scrooge, like some short, balding Scots I happen to know—”

“Dominic.” Billy threw a cloth ornament at Dom’s head. “Shut up, you great poof.”

Dom smirked and put the bell away, leaning down to pick up the snowflake Billy had just bounced off his forehead. “He abuses us terribly,” he said to the snowflake. “It’s a miracle Father Christmas visited him at all.”

“Dom.”

Dom looked up innocently. “Yes?”

Billy sighed again and pointed to the knot of fairy lights coiled in a corner of the armchair. “I’ll finish this, and you go put those up in the bedroom, alright?”

“Really?” Dom’s face lit up like the damned string of bulbs, Billy thought, and he smiled, despite his intention of maintaining a martyred face.

“Yes, really.”

Dom leaned over and kissed him, handing him the knitted snowflake at the same time. “I won’t be a minute,” he said brightly, grabbing the bundle of wires and bouncing out of the room.

“Oh, yes you will,” Billy said under his breath, turning back to the fir and beginning to unburden it of its ornaments as fast as he could. Hopefully the tangled cords—not to mention a few burnt-out bulbs, if Billy was lucky—would keep Dom occupied long enough that Billy could finish the tree.


	4. Ineffable

**ineffable** \in-EF-uh-buhl\, adjective:  
1\. Incapable of being expressed in words; unspeakable; unutterable; indescribable. 2. Not to be uttered; taboo.

*

"Why?”

"I dunno. You just—you’re you. That’s all. I can’t—" Billy stopped, and forced himself to look at Dom. "I can’t help it, or stop it, or change it.”

Dom squinted at him, sunlight turning Merry’s curls brighter than honey just for a moment; the wind whipped the hair against his cheek. "Why now?”

Billy shifted. Glue wrinkled between his toes, and he spat out a lock of hair and aimed his narrowed gaze out over the valley. "I couldn’t wait any longer, I think.”

Dom put his hand on Billy’s arm; let his hand fall. "Hey, it’s okay.”

Billy looked at him again. "Is it?” He swallowed. "I don’t know why, though, Dom—why you, why now. Why a man, why anything. Why I’m such a coward it took me this long to say it.”

Dom stepped closer; he glanced over Billy’s shoulder to make sure no one was paying much attention to them, or calling them back to places. "It doesn’t matter why. Maybe we’re not supposed to know why.” His eyes were fixed on Billy again, clear as water, grey as smoke. "I don’t care why. I just—I’m glad.”

Billy’s mouth opened, but he couldn’t think of any words for a moment. So he touched Dom’s face, instead. "You’re glad?” he said finally, and the words were weak, torn away by the wind as they fell from his lips.

Dom closed the last inches between them and put his hand over Billy’s, holding it to his cheek. "I don’t care _why_. But I care about everything else.” He closed his eyes and kissed Billy, and Billy closed his eyes and kissed him back.


	5. Dubiety

**dubiety** \doo-BY-uh-tee; dyoo-\, noun: 1. The condition or quality of being doubtful or skeptical. 2. A matter of doubt.

*

“Just going to watch a movie at my place.”

Kissing, kissing, kissing, the papery scrub of stubble, warm sweet slide of lips, wet slick twine of tongues. Dom’s fingers on Billy’s nape, huff of breath across his cheek. Dom’s nose bumping his and Billy’s hand on his denimed thigh, warm and solid. Kissing, oh, kissing for _hours_ , slow and deep and wet, messy and fevered and biting. Dom’s erection a thick ridge at the juncture of thigh and thigh, the rough gravel of his groan as Billy presses the heel of his hand down, grinding. Lifts his hand and reaches for Dom’s hand, brings it to his own crotch. Unashamed, laughing, moaning, gasping as they grope and squeeze and rub.

*

“Really tired tonight. Just gonna fall asleep, probably.”

Billy’s bed, Billy in it. The weight of his cock in Dom’s mouth, the taste and scent of it, heavy on his tongue. Wet and slippery, and Dom loves the slide of it, up and down in the circle he makes of his lips. He licks and licks and then wriggles upward until they’re face to face; they kiss languidly, Billy’s hands sure and firm on Dom’s back, his bottom, his neck, trailing across his jaw. Dom shifts over, away, and pulls Billy against himself; passes back the little bottle and waits. Billy slides inward easily, with hardly a sigh, and Dom can only hear his own breathing: laboured, measured. Billy fucks Dom slowly, intently, silently. His hand, still tacky with lube, slips over Dom’s waist and lower, firms around his cock. Billy’s fingers make a circle, and Dom’s lips make a circle (again) and five minutes later Dom comes almost sluggishly, his moan so low and quiet he feels it in his chest more than hears it, wonders if Billy hears it at all. Billy comes a moment or three later, ragged gasp against Dom’s shoulder blade and fingertips pressing into his hipbone until it subsides. Dom’s asleep before Billy softens and slips out, and Billy might be, too, for all Dom knows.

*

“Kinda busy, actually. Sorry, guys.”

Sex in the lounge, the door hastily locked and Dom’s trousers about his ankles; Billy’s head moves up and down in the half-light and he gurgles with laughter as Dom curses and shoves forward, hands tight in his hair but not forcing him anywhere. After Dom comes he tumbles to the carpet; Billy’s already on his back, hips arched up as he struggles to shove his jeans down. He’d push them all the way off but Dom crawls up over him (still hobbled by his own trousers), trapping his legs, and leans down to suck him off fiercely, hands pinning Billy’s agile hips to the floor. When it’s done Dom swallows and topples over to lie beside Billy, both of them breathing hard. _Shower?_ Billy suggests after some time spent examining the ceiling, and Dom shrugs and nods. They don’t have sex in the shower—Dom almost could; Billy’s not quite ready—but they wash each other thoroughly, tickling and pinching, slapping wet flesh for the red handprints and squeaks of indignation it elicits. When Billy starts looking speculatively at his own handprint on Dom’s ass, it’s time to get out. In the hall Dom shoves Billy face-first against the wall, and instead of running past him to leap onto the bed he slams himself against Billy, there in the darkness. Billy grunts and goes still, Dom’s chest plastered to his back, hips snug against his arse. The evening’s plans shift; both of them feel it, know it, so there’s no point talking about it. Instead Dom bites down on Billy’s shoulder, hard, sinking his teeth in as Billy shudders and flails behind himself with one hand (the other’s smashed between his thigh and the wall), grabbing Dom’s hip and digging his fingers in viciously. _Like that, then_ , one or both of them think, and when they make it to the bed Dom holds Billy down and smears him with just enough lube to keep it consensual. The friction and burn of Dom’s cock make Billy hiss and fight him, and Dom bites him again, on the nape this time. _Animal_ , one or both of them think, and Dom’s moving, losing it, shoving in and pulling out with hard, sharp noises. Billy’s quiet under him, taking it, and Dom reaches up, draws his palm down the curve of that pale, freckled back in purposeful juxtaposition to the relentless thrust of his cock. Billy shudders again and sighs; the motion and the sound remind Dom as much as Billy that there are no closed doors, here. It’s a place they can always find their way back to, and there’s no need to fear abandonment, or, for that matter, abandon. Billy sinks lower, changing the angle, and Dom comes first, to the high short cries Billy makes as Dom’s prick slams into his prostate. Billy moves out from under him and Dom falls to the mattress sideways so Billy can kneel over him, hand tight and sure on his own cock. Dom watches through half-lidded eyes as Billy groans and fucks his own fist and comes over Dom’s mouth and chin and neck. Billy collapses over him a minute or two later and they lie in a tangled, sweaty heap for a while, recovering. At some point, when Dom’s just beginning to dream, Billy moves again—wipes Dom’s face with a tissue, retreats to the toilet for a few minutes. When he comes back he’s got a glass of water and Dom wakes enough to sit up and drink half of it. Billy drinks the rest and then sets the glass aside and lies tucked against Dom. He runs his fingers over Dom’s body in endless looping patterns that would tickle if Dom was more alert, or less well-fucked. _Third time’s the charm_ , Billy whispers after a while, and he rolls Dom onto his belly.

*

“Do they think anyone actually believes their lame excuses?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well, might as well go have a beer. They won’t be back tonight.”

“You’re buying.”

“I bought last time.”

“I don’t think so.”


	6. Sine qua non

**sine qua non** \sin-ih-kwah-NON; -NOHN; sy-nih-kway-\, noun: An essential condition or element; an indispensable thing.

*

The air is blue; sunset is leaching the colour from the world, although the sunset itself is invisible, well-hidden by thick blue striations of cloud. Dom’s asleep in the passenger seat, and Billy has the car stereo on low. It’s winter, and everything is blue. The rutted fields are etched more clearly by thin blue remnants of last week’s snow, and the cracked asphalt spinning out under the car wheels is blue. Houses and farms, rolling swell of hills and trees: blue. Billy hums along to what he can hear of the music; a treble line comes tinnily clear for a moment and he frowns and adjusts his pitch downward a half-step; he keeps singing quietly to himself. The tail lights of the few other cars are jarring, bright red in the monochrome dusk. Dom’s hand is lax and loose on Billy’s thigh; his wadded-up anorak cushions his head against the opposite car door and his mouth is open as he sleeps. Every once in a while he inhales more heavily, or shifts. His hand twitches sometimes, and Billy rests his own hand on it when that happens, curling his fingers into the curve of Dom’s palm. Dom sighs and sinks back into silence. Billy hums and drives as night lowers over the blue land. A pale blue hawk sitting in a skeletal blue tree flashes past, and Billy turns his eyes back to the horizon. There are miles left before them, but the roads are clear and the winter nights come early; there’s plenty of time yet. 


	7. Incommunicado

**incommunicado** \in-kuh-myoo-nuh-KAH-doh\, adverb or adjective: Without the means or right to communicate.

*

The third time Dom’s mobile rang in fifteen minutes, Billy snatched it out of his hand and rolled off the bed to answer it himself. "Dom Monaghan’s phone,” he said cheerily, glaring at Dom, who flopped over and buried his face in the pillows, shoulders shaking with laughter. "No, I’m afraid Dom can’t come to the phone. He’s busy.” A pause, and Dom turned back over, sprawling across the duvet, one hand sliding down his sweat-sheened belly to wrap around his prick. Billy swallowed, but kept talking evenly: "I’ll give him the message. Mm? Oh, sure, just let me get a pen.” He didn’t move, but he squeezed his own erection with his free hand, just once, and then let go; he smirked at Dom in silence for a minute. "Alright, all set. Yeah. Mm-hmm? ...Three-four-six. Got it. Yes, sure. You, too.” He thumbed the phone off and threw it out the open window without taking his eyes off Dom. "Oops.” Dom and his slowly moving hand, flexing wrist, thick hard cock. Billy grasped his prick again and leaned back against the wall, watching Dom, stroking in the same rhythm.

"I’m sure I’ll mind about that later,” Dom said. His lips curved up on one side, a crooked smile, and he let his eyes sag shut, sighing as he shifted his hips up into his fist and then down again.

Billy climbed back onto the bed and straddled Dom’s thighs, movements deliberate and measured. "Too bad for you,” he said as Dom opened his eyes again.

"Mmm,” Dom agreed, and Billy smiled.


	8. Consanguineous

**consanguineous** \kon-san(g)-GWIN-ee-us\, adjective: Of the same blood; related by birth; descended from the same parent or ancestor.

*

Dom moved his knight and sat back, sighing. “I wish—” he said, and then smiled and shook his head.

“What?” Billy didn't look up; he studied the chess board and tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Hmm.”

Dom didn't reply; he watched as Billy moved his rook into a dangerous position. Why would he give it away like that? Dom puzzled it out, aware, now, of Billy's eyes on him. “You sneaky little bastard,” Dom said, and moved a pawn, ignoring the rook. It was a delaying action, probably, but he'd be damned if he gave up so easily.

“I wish we really were cousins,” Billy said, and Dom looked up, startled. Billy's eyes were wide and green under Pippin's chestnut curls, mouth curved in a secret little smile. He met Dom's gaze fearlessly.

Dom grinned. “That's it,” he said, and they both nodded.

Billy looked back at the board. “You're fucked,” he said with a matter-of-fact smirk, and took his next turn.


	9. Ergo

**ergo** \UR-go; AIR-\, adverb: Therefore; consequently.

*

It was all Billy's fault. He _smiled_ , see, at Dom. His eyes were doing that thing, that crinkled-up-about-the-corners thing. And they were grass green, jade green, leaf-green. Billy grinned, pointy teeth and mischief in every pore, and his cheeks were so pink. His hair was still damp, messy from the towel he'd used a minute before; Dom could see water in his lashes, and caught in the sparse soft hair on his chest. It was completely Billy's fault. Dom leaned in and Billy's eyebrows went up, and that was even _more_ irresistible, happy expectation shining all over his face, waiting to hear what Dom would say, and Dom had to kiss him.


	10. Sesquipedalian

**sesquipedalian** \ses-kwuh-puh-DAYL-yuhn\, adjective: 1. Given to or characterized by the use of long words. 2. Long and ponderous; having many syllables.

*

“You don't—” Billy sniffs and settles himself deeper onto Dom. “You never _say_ it.” He's on Dom, Dom's on—in—an enormous reclining chair. The television is off and grey light filters through the curtains at the window. 

Dom makes a disbelieving noise and rubs his nose on Billy's nape. “I do, too,” he says. “I've never stopped saying it.” His arms are wrapped around Billy of course, and his fingers twitch and skitter over Billy's stomach, tugging at his t-shirt. “I say it all the time, to everyone.”

“Not to me,” Billy says. “That's what I mean.” He turns his head slightly, presenting his cheek and the line of his jaw, and Dom obligingly presses his lips lightly along the skin. “I don't think you've ever said anything to _me_.”

Dom's fingers dip below Billy's t-shirt and rest on ticklish skin; they don't tickle though, and Billy relaxes. His eyes sink closed and Dom's voice buzzes along his neck, under the hinge of his jaw. “I didn't think I needed to.” His body is warm and solid under Billy, and Billy shrugs a little: acknowledgment. Dom shifts and kisses his jaw again. “I have to find a really choice word for it, anyway. To say it to you.”

“How many syllables?” Billy _hmm_ s agreeably and lets his hands slide down to lie on Dom's thighs. 

“For me to say it to you? Oh.” Dom makes thoughtful noises and his head waggles back and forth; his nose nudges at Billy's nape several times. “Five, at least.”

“We should get a thesaurus.” Billy squeezes the denim and the muscles under it, and Dom snickers and bites his neck. “You could start looking.”

“I think nonverbal communication may be the way to go,” Dom says when he releases Billy. His thumb brushes along the crease where Billy's stomach folds, and his fingertips sneak lower, beneath his waistband. “Don't you?”

“Mmmm. Maybe so. Words are overrated anyway.” Billy wriggles and scoots around until he's straddling Dom in the oversized chair. He leans down and puts his mouth against Dom's. “How's that nonverbal stuff work again?”

“Shut up and I'll show you.” Dom grins and tips his chin up slightly, eyes falling closed.


	11. Concupiscence

**concupiscence** \kon-KYOO-puh-suhn(t)s; kuhn-\, noun: Strong desire, especially sexual desire; lust.

*

It didn't make any sense, but nothing did. The whole thing was ridiculous, Billy thought: the country, the job, the costumes makeup hair ears feet _idea_ of it. Billy Boyd, hobbit. And now this. Panic and butterflies, his own too-nervous laugh and Dom (finally, too soon) atop him, trying not to smile, waiting for Billy's courage to catch up to his want. "Go on, then," Dom said quietly, and Billy nodded and didn't. Lay there under Dom, fingers splayed lightly on Dom's back. If Billy waited till his hands stopped shaking, it would be easier, right? 

“Give me a sec,” Billy whispered; he closed his eyes and felt another titter trying to force its way through his teeth. “Fuck,” he managed.

“Breathe,” Dom instructed, and Billy nodded again and tried to: inhale (Dom's body lifted as Billy's ribcage expanded), exhale (Dom's body pressing down, heavier, solid, grounding), inhale—exhale—inhale—

“Not waiting anymore,” Dom said, and he kissed Billy.

Billy opened his mouth but Dom's tongue slipped inside and the protest was licked away, dissolved like candy floss—Billy's hands had definitely not stopped shaking, but he tilted his head and kissed Dom. Nothing to do now but this, _this_ , and he could hear Dom breathing through his nose, but Billy had forgotten to breathe because Dom took away that inhale, that exhale, Dom tasted like spit and Dom, wet and slippery and Billy felt Dom's hand cupping his cheek: slow thumb dragged along his jaw.

Billy groaned into Dom's mouth, and clutched him, and it made perfect sense.


	12. Aubade

**aubade** \oh-BAHD\, noun: A song or poem greeting the dawn; also, a composition suggestive of morning.

*

“It's eight o'clock in the fucking morning,” Dom groaned, but Billy's hand was already slick with something warm and smooth, not to mention gliding over Dom's cock insistently. Billy laughed quietly into Dom's hair, warm breath and warm body pressed tight to his side, moving slowly against him.

“Morning,” Billy said, and sucked Dom's earlobe between his teeth.

Dom whined—his voice cracked and he felt Billy's chuckle—and pushed himself up into that firm grip, needing to stretch, arching himself tautly and then sprawling again, eyes still closed though the sounds he made weren't indicative of protest, he thought, probably. Billy's erection was grinding into his thigh and Dom made an effort: turned onto his side, facing Billy, and squirmed and wriggled until their hard-ons were aligned. Billy pulled his slippery hand free and clutched Dom's back instead, forehead bumping Dom's as they struggled slowly and then more urgently against one another, breath stuttering out, Dom's sleep-thick groans layered under the occasional tight hitch of a whimper from Billy. Dom tilted his chin and they kissed, feeble and moist as they moved tightly, rubbing, grinding, shoving their hips together in a feverish, uneven rhythm. Heat twisted in Dom's belly and thighs, pooled in his balls as he neared the edge. “Ah,” Billy gasped into Dom's mouth, breaking the kiss as he stiffened and shivered; his fingers scrabbled at Dom's sweaty back and then stilled, palms flattened weakly against the skin. Everything was suddenly slicker and stickier and Dom shoved himself hard against Billy's pelvis, prick catching and then sliding against the wetness there, pressed between their bodies as Dom sucked in a great lungful of air and came on a long, low growl, continuing to thrust his way through it, feeling himself spurt again and again as Billy panted against his cheek, his hair.

They rested where they were until their breathing evened out, and Billy kissed Dom's ear and rolled away onto his back, flinging his arms up over his head, onto the pillow. “Hmmm,” he hummed, and Dom scooted closer and shoved his wet belly against Billy's hip. Billy squeaked and slapped at him, which made Dom press closer.

“Why the fuck'd you get me up so early?” Dom grumbled, but his eyes were open, halfway anyway. “Wanker.”

“I was going to wank,” Billy agreed. “But you looked, ehm, bored.” He pushed at Dom's head until Dom lifted it, grousing, and Billy could get his arm under Dom's neck, pulling him up so his head lay in the crook of Billy's shoulder. “I was just trying to be nice.”

“Couldn't you have been nice at half-ten?” Dom asked, but he didn't mean it, and Billy knew, of course. 

“Nope,” he said, and Dom turned his head and kissed Billy's chest, sticking his tongue out experimentally to see if he could get a nipple from this angle. 

He couldn't, and he sighed. “Waking me up to take advantage,” he said. “Terrible.”

“Wretched.” Billy squeezed him and yawned. “Now 'm hungry,” he added.

Dom closed his eyes against the morning sunlight. “Not making you breakfast,” he said.

“You're going to need your strength today,” said Billy, and Dom cracked one eye open to squint up at him. “You should do it for you, not me, Dom.”

“I'm going back to sleep,” Dom said.

Billy was smiling at the ceiling. “No, you're not,” he said, and somehow Dom believed him.


	13. Hobbledehoy

**hobbledehoy** \HOB-uhl-dee-hoy\, noun: An awkward, gawky young fellow.

*

“Oh, for Chrissakes,” Billy said when the medic showed them what she’d pulled from Dom’s foot. “You’ll probably live,” he confided to Dom, and Dom, looking at the miniscule splinter of wood, agreed that yes, he probably would; he was still sweating, though, and the medic kindly said that even the smallest splinters could get right up against nerve endings, couldn’t they? She opened the tweezers and let the tiny shard fall into Dom’s palm, held demandingly out, and Dom got the distinct impression that she wanted to pat him on the head as she rose to leave.

“It really _hurt_ ,” Dom said to Billy, but he felt foolish.

“You sweated a pint or two,” Billy said, and that night he bought Dom a beer and made a toast to his great powers of fortitude, while Elijah and Orlando snickered, and even Astin looked amused, though he didn’t go so far as to laugh. Dom drank his beer and sulked.

And stubbed his toe when he stood up to go to the loo. 

“Bloody—buggering— _fuck_ ,” he hissed before he could stop himself, and Billy laughed and laughed. Dom limped away (scowling) and pissed and then sat on the toilet and took off his shoe to look at his toe. 

It didn’t look any different than normal.

Back at the table, Sean had gone and Dom sat alone and watched Orlando and Elijah attempting to dance, and Billy actually dancing, with a girl a good three inches taller than him. Dom drank the rest of his beer and pulled on his earlobe and sighed and looked down at the table. He dragged his finger down the side of his glass, wet with condensation, and spelled out **D O M** on the surface. Then he wrote **G I T**. He smeared out his name and wet his finger again, and wrote **B I L L Y I S A** above **G I T**. He smiled a little, then sighed again.

He looked back up. Billy had stopped dancing, and he looked over at Dom, eyebrow raised in the universal sign for “another?” Dom nodded and patted his empty glass in confirmation, and then watched Billy eel through the dancers, moving toward the bar. Billy didn’t run into anyone, and no one ran into him. Dom smeared out all his words (they’d mostly dried up anyway) and sprawled into the corner of the booth, spine pressed uncomfortably into the angle of the wall. 

“Beer,” Billy said, and slid in beside Dom. He set their drinks down. “Last one tonight, eh?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Dom yawned. “Thanks.”

Billy drank neatly; Dom spilled some down his front. “Oh, for...” He could only just summon up a groan.

Billy laughed again, and Dom frowned and drank the rest of his beer in six swallows, belching behind his hand afterward. “Gimme a ride home?” he said, looking at Orlando and Elijah, who were hanging onto each other on the dance floor and laughing (not at Dom, he really hoped, though he was sure they couldn't have seen him spill), and Billy nodded readily enough. 

“Half a sec,” he said, and drank steadily until his glass was empty. “Ready.”

The air outside was crisp and cool, the afternoon’s rain gone, the night sky clear overhead. Dom glanced up at the stars, then back down, looking at his trainers on the uneven gravel of the carpark.

“Okay?” Billy asked, and Dom nodded, giving a half shrug. 

“M’fine. Tired. My foot hurts,” he added, looking at Billy out of the corner of his eye.

Billy smiled and moved closer, slinging one arm over Dom’s shoulders. “Poor Dominic. Rough day.” His arm was warm and heavy, and Dom scooted a little closer, wanting to tuck himself against Billy’s side. He tripped, instead, and crashed into him. Billy grunted and staggered sideways, arm suddenly tight around Dom’s neck, and banged into a car. “Ouch,” Billy said, righting them both, and started to laugh. “I’m sorry,” he said, still giggling, and Dom gave a strained laugh—he could feel misery leaking into his throat, and choked it back viciously.

“Why’re _you_ apologising?” he asked, clearing his throat. “I’ve just drawn you into my Day of Pain,” he said, trying to smile. They reached Billy’s car. “I just wanna crawl under the covers and sleep for a week,” Dom said.

“Well, you get a couple of days, anyway,” Billy said. He squeezed Dom’s shoulder and then let his arm fall. “Come on.”

At Dom’s flat they sat in the car as it idled in the silent street. 

“Okay?” There was no laughter in Billy’s face; only curiosity and kindness.

Dom met his eyes and then looked away with a small cough. “Yeah, just afraid to go in. Way my day’s going, I think I might burn the place down.” He flicked a look at Billy again, half-smiling.

“Maybe a grease fire,” Billy agreed. “Leave the iron on, something.” He pulled up the parking brake with a crunch and turned in his seat, facing Dom.

“Exactly,” Dom said. 

“Do you.” Billy’s face was still. “Do you want to come over to my place?” One hand curled loosely around the steering wheel, the other lay quiet on his thigh.

Dom tilted his head. “I dunno, I don’t think I’m really in _that_ much danger, I—”

Billy leaned forward and kissed him gently, on the lips. “Do you want to come over to my place?” he asked again, and Dom blinked at him, right up close, some small exhalation of surprise sighing out of his mouth.

Billy sat back, and his face was still quiet, kind. Unreadable, though, suddenly. “You don’t have to,” he said softly. “Just thought I’d ask.”

Dom lurched forward. His nose bumped Billy’s and his knuckles banged painfully against the gear shift on the way, but he found Billy’s lips with his own after a few fits and starts, and he said “yes,” once he had Billy’s mouth open against his own, wet and warm, and his hand on Billy’s neck, hot under his palm. “Yes, I want to come over to your place,” Dom said clearly, and opened his eyes.

Billy was looking back at him. “Good,” he said. 

They both pulled back a moment or three later, and Billy ran his thumb along Dom’s cheekbone, then settled into his own seat and released the hand brake. “My room’s a mess,” he said, shifting into gear, pulling away from the kerb.

Dom put his hand on Billy’s thigh. “Oh, good,” he said. “Something to trip over on the way to the bed.”

They both grinned.


	14. Gloaming

**gloaming** \GLOH-ming\, noun: Twilight; dusk.

*

They hadn’t been out of bed all day.

Well, that was not strictly true. They’d both got up at one time or another to piss, and they’d taken it in turns to fetch food. Dom had made a quick excursion to the lounge for his CD case at one point, insisting that Billy needed to hear a certain song _right that instant_ , and Billy had clambered out and fetched his guitar from where it was propped in the corner (it now lay upon the floor, half beneath the bed, abandoned). 

The sheets were dirty and rumpled, the duvet turned wrong way about so that either their necks or their toes were left uncovered; a smear of blackberry jam decorated one corner. Crumbs from scones and, later, biscuits, gathered on the mattress, in the hollows and depressions made by buttocks, shoulders, elbows, heels. Billy occasionally sat up and had an energetic go at the crumbs—he shoved Dom back and forth and attempted to brush the itchy invaders off the linens, eventually collapsing with a satisfied sigh, only to find a new deposit under the jut of his hipbone. Dom made a show of excavating them, but it was hopeless and they both knew it.

The room smelled, powerfully, of sex. 

Slightly dank and musty, a bit sweaty really. It had been a long day, and they were both young, and the first time Dom announced that he was hungry, Billy made a positively obscene gustatory offer, and the second time Billy complained that his back hurt from Dom’s too-soft mattress, Dom turned him over and gave him—well, it began as a back massage, and ended as a proper rogering. And there were the other two times, too, and the wrestling and tickling and hours and _hours_ of kissing, slow moving hands and mouths, jokes and teasing and murmurs, confidences, stories, confessions. The scent was side effect and tag-along, and no wonder, honestly. 

Billy secretly thought the room, and Dom, smelled perfect; Dom thought the room, and Billy, smelled _brilliant_. 

“Getting late,” Dom said as the light began to fade, and Billy yawned and nodded, rub of fine hair against Dom’s chest. “I can’t believe it’s December, though,” Dom added.

“Barely gotten dark,” Billy said. He ran his hand up Dom’s belly; tugged half-heartedly at the thin hairs decorating his sternum. “You have six hairs on your chest.”

“You told me that earlier,” Dom replied. He scritched at Billy’s hair. “All my body hair migrated south.”

“I think I picked half of it from between my teeth,” Billy said. “I think there are still a couple stuck in there.” He made exaggerated smacking noises.

“Turnabout’s fair play,” Dom said.

The light in the small room dimmed; the sheets glowed blue, and so did Dom’s hand, slipping through Billy’s hair, and so did Billy’s hand, resting on Dom’s bare chest.


End file.
